


put your arm around my collarbone

by anacruses



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Fluff and Angst, GTA V AU, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anacruses/pseuds/anacruses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ray is sharp and quick-witted and good with his hands, and he’s got Ryan’s back. Almost more importantly, he doesn’t seem to care if he makes it out alive, either."</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your arm around my collarbone

**Author's Note:**

> This is, like, the fourth fic I've started for this fandom, first one I've finished--and probably the only one that will ever be good enough to post, oooop.

There is always a Plan B. Maybe it’s not always Plan B, per se; maybe it’s Plan C, or Plan D, or M or Z or AA’, but it’s always there, whether you’re conscious of it or not, and it’s always, in essence, the same. Plan B is the escape plan’s escape plan, Plan B is cut and run. Count up your losses, leave everyone behind, and get the fuck out. Last ditch effort to simply survive, expense and indignity and your accomplices be damned. There’s always a Plan B. 

Nobody knows that better than Ryan Haywood. Ryan, the exit strategy guy. Get in, get out—and if you can’t get out with what you went in there for, then haul ass to at the very least save yourself. And it’s not a self-serving instinct; not entirely, at least. He couldn’t, in all honesty, give a damn whether he lives or dies, whether he leaves a job in a getaway car or a body bag. It’s the job itself that he enjoys, and everything else is just a bonus. But still, there is something that compels him to make it out of there alive, every time; maybe he’s finally growing some self-preservation, or maybe it’s the fact that he knows Geoff would dig him up and kill him again if he knew Ryan let himself get killed. Or maybe, _maybe_ , he’d actually miss the others. 

(But he’d be damned if he ever let them know that outright.)

And maybe it’s the fact that now, he’s got someone looking out for him—and someone to look out for. Ray is sharp and quick-witted and good with his hands, and he’s got Ryan’s back. Almost more importantly, he doesn’t seem to care if he makes it out alive, either. The others revel in a job well done, live for the rush of getting away; Ryan much prefers the bitter, angry adrenaline of his second wind, blood on his hands and harsh ringing in his ears and a wild grin hidden by his mask. And sometimes he glances over at Ray, in the heat of the moment, and sees his face lit up with the same frenzy he feels himself, and his heart skips a beat.

It’s one such night—an easy job, an uninspired armed jewelry store robbery brought on more by boredom than any desire for the take—and Ryan is flying. Metaphorically. A bit literally, too, racing down the city street on a thundering motorcycle, Ray riding pillion with one arm slung around Ryan’s waist and the other pointing a gun at the cops nipping at their heels, the bag of cash tucked securely into Ray’s duffel bag. Neither of them have helmets, and the noise is incredible, sirens and gunshots and screaming bystanders, and as Ryan turns a corner, heeling the bike so far over he could reach out and graze the pavement with his fingertips, Ray reaches around in front of him with both hands to reload his gun. The clip slips slightly from his fingers, and he pins it against Ryan’s thigh before it can tumble to the ground. Ryan can feel a dull flush creep up his neck from where it’s been hiding since the second Ray pressed his chest to Ryan’s back.

“Sooo…” he says, handing the clip to Ray, his voice falling away in the wind. “You come here often?”

Ray laughs in his ear, the gun already loaded and cocked and aimed back towards the cops. He fires once, twice. “This is awesome!” he yells, half into Ryan’s ear and half into the night. 

Ryan grins beneath his mask, pushes the bike just a little faster. Up ahead, he sees an alley he’s used many times before as a shortcut, too sharp of a turn for the cop cars to follow and small enough that they’re almost guaranteed to overlook it. Still, he pats Ray’s knee to get his attention. “We could use a distraction,” he calls back, and he can feel Ray nod, and _damn_ is the kid fast, because almost immediately a flashbang detonates behind them. There’s the sound of crunching metal, shattering glass, and Ryan smoothly turns the corner into the alley.

But something went wrong somewhere, because the alley isn’t empty like it usually is, the cops chasing them speed past but there’s a cop car barricading the other end of the alley and Ryan barely has time to screech to a stop. As it is, they’re both nearly thrown off the bike, and Ryan collects himself just in time to see Ray start shooting at the cops, and the cops start shooting back. 

They duck behind a dumpster, and the cops stop shooting momentarily. Ryan turns to Ray and he can see the silent glee on the kid’s face, the excited, calculating glint in his dark eyes. He grins at Ryan.

Geoff’s voice crackles over Ryan’s earpiece. “Where the hell are you guys?”

Ryan pulls a gun out of his bag and runs a hand through his hair. “Little busy. Got detoured. Be there as soon as possible.”

“Is somebody shooting at you? What the fuck happened to being inconspicuous?”

“Inconspicuous isn’t exactly my style. Gotta go. Meet you at the safe house.” Ryan looks up at Ray.

“Let’s fucking do this,” Ray says immediately, and tosses another flashbang over towards the cops. They start shooting again.

Ryan pauses, thinking. If they can make it out of this alley, two streets over and a few blocks south, up a fire escape, and through an unlocked door, they’re good. 

And that’s a goddamn _breeze_.

He looks to Ray and nods. Ray smiles, holds his fist up to Ryan; Ryan rolls his eyes and bumps it. “Let’s go,” he hisses.

And that’s about when things start going really wrong. Ryan jumps to his feet, fires, gets one cop down, but Ray’s always been a better, more lethal shot, and he gets two right in the forehead. Now it’s just them and two cops, rapidly calling for backup. Ryan fires, misses, nearly misses getting shot himself. He ducks back behind the dumpster and hits another cop in the chest. Mind reeling, he covers again, suddenly realizing he’s missing Ray. Gunshots from in front of him, the sound of the last cop getting shot. A dull thud, and things are too quiet, just sirens in the distance and wind whispering through the alley.

Ryan stumbles out from behind his cover, noticing for the first time the bullet graze along his upper arm. Then he notices Ray, trying to pull himself to his feet despite the rapidly spreading stain on his upper thigh, like a blooming crimson flower. 

“Fuck,” Ryan says. _Fuck what did I let him do._ He holsters his gun and catches Ray before he hits the ground, gets a quick look at the gunshot wound to his leg. He’s seen wounds like this before. It’s bad, but—not fatal. If they hurry. Sirens quickly growing louder, now. Ray looks up at him. There’s a shallow gash along his cheekbone and blood is running down his face.

“Leave me.” Ray’s jaw is set, but his voice trembles slightly. “Don’t even fucking try to drag me along with you.”

Ryan looks at Ray, to the entrance of the alley past the dead cops sprawled on the pavement, back to Ray. He could go by himself, he could absolutely make it before reinforcements arrive. Ray can’t walk, that much is obvious, and Ryan’s strong, but carrying Ray…if he takes Ray with him, then neither of them might make it out alive. But if he leaves Ray behind…

If he leaves Ray behind, there’s no fucking _point_ in making it out alive, and that knowledge steadies him as much as its implications worry him. And so Ryan’s Plan B suddenly includes two people, and making it out in one piece, and Not Letting Anyone Down, especially not the kid cradled in his arms right now.

“Fuck that,” he tells Ray. And there’s no other way around this, he’s big and Ray’s small and there’s no way in hell Ray can walk, so he throws Ray’s arm around his neck, rises to his feet, adjusts him to carry him more securely, and Ray makes an angry noise in his throat.

“Your funeral.” He reloads his gun, shuts his eyes, lets his head fall back against Ryan’s shoulder. His face is pale and his eyelids flutter slightly and Ryan barely resists the urge to wipe the blood from his face. “Also, bridal style? C’mon.”

“It’s either this or piggy back. Also, shut up and cover me. And keep pressure on your leg.” Ryan makes his way towards the street, stepping somewhat resignedly over his wrecked bike, the cops’ dead bodies. Carrying Ray is slightly awkward, slows him down quite a bit, but—it can’t be helped. The sirens are growing louder now, and Ryan’s pulse is pounding in his throat, and he impatiently shakes his hair from his eyes. As they dart across the street and into the relative safety of another alley, Ray reaches up and tugs the mask off his face. Ryan blinks down at him. A cop car squeals past them, and Ryan swears and ducks further back into the darkness, pressing back against the wall. Ray raises his gun, eyes narrowed. Silence. Nothing. Ray looks back up to Ryan, continues their conversation.

“If you’re gonna be like this at least take that fuckin’ thing off. You can’t see with it.” Ray frowns. His voice is slightly slurred, but still strong. “‘n it looks ridiculous anyway.” 

“Not more ridiculous than _your_ stupid mask,” Ryan replies, glancing down and immediately regretting it. Ray is leaning his cheek against Ryan’s shoulder, looking up at him intently, eyes dark and half-lidded behind said mask, a slight smirk on his lips, and Ryan’s steadily racing pulse skips a beat. He tries to concentrate on staying out of sight as they duck onto a side street. This is stupid and inappropriate and rash and _stupid_ , he tells himself as he presses a kiss to Ray’s forehead when they pass back into darkness. His skin is cool to the touch.

Ray blinks up at him, starts to say something, stops, grins. His breathing is shallow now, his voice low and soft. “What was that?”

“What was what? Nothing. You’re losing blood, you’re delirious.” Ryan feels his face flush, is thankful for the darkness.

“Yeah, sure,” Ray says. He grins again, this time into Ryan’s neck. The intimacy of the gesture makes Ryan’s heart start racing even faster, sends a shiver up his spine. He glances down at the bullet wound, at the blood that’s running down his leg, and hopes against hope that they’ll make it in time. Ray seems so _tiny_ in his arms, curled limply against Ryan’s chest. “Whatever you say.”

“Just try to focus on not dying, okay?”

“Mmmmm.” Ray shuts his eyes, nods.

“Ray?” Silence. “Ray?”

“Ryan?” Michael’s voice in the dark startles Ryan. He steps forward towards them, his gun held ready at his side. His eyes go wide when he sees Ray. “What the fuck happened?”

“Things got dicey,” Ryan says simply. Ray shifts in his arms, not seemingly fully conscious anymore. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Geoff got worried and sent me out this way. We heard shooting, figured it was you.” Michael steps closer, uncharacteristically quiet. He glances at Ryan’s arm. “You too? You’re both—“

“Michael.” Ryan’s voice is steady, low. “If we don’t get Ray help, right now—“

“Right. Right. Sorry.” Michael shakes his head, blinks, steps away. “C’mon. Let’s go. Things are pretty quiet this way.”

———

Over the next few days, wandering around the house they all share, Ryan finds himself constantly thanking whatever’s out there that the bullet had just grazed Ray’s leg; a lot of blood, but no serious damage. Everyone else is—out, he doesn’t know where, knows that they’d all checked in with him before they left but he had had more serious things on his mind. He has things he should be doing, too, but can’t find it in himself to leave Ray.

When they had gotten back to the safe house, everyone had immediately started fussing over Ray, and Jack had rushed him—and Ryan, despite his protests—to the only contact of theirs they trusted with their lives. A few hours later, on their way home, stitched up and sore, Ryan had allowed himself to throw an arm around Ray’s shoulders, let him sleep it off against Ryan’s chest.And then, after he had finally convinced Ray to at least get into his bed for the night (or morning, as it were), Geoff had found Ryan sitting on the back porch, sat next to him for a few minutes talking about nothing, before throwing an arm around Ryan’s shoulders and whispering, “He trusts you and so do I. Just make sure you deserve it.”

The quiet statement settles deep in Ryan’s core and he feels a twinge—no, a fucking _stab_ —of guilt and self-loathing over the fact that he had almost left Ray behind. Geoff claps him on the shoulder and stands, stretches, heads back into the house, leaving Ryan alone and silent in the rapidly approaching dawn. He doesn’t know if Geoff detected his near betrayal—the man alternates between completely oblivious and frighteningly perceptive—or if he was just trying to reassure Ryan somehow. Somehow, it doesn’t matter. Ryan sits on the porch for a few minutes, fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket and feeling his fingers gradually go numb with the cold.

Finally, he rises to his feet, runs a hand through his hair, makes his way silently through the dark house and up the stairs. Ray’s door has a sliver of dim light beneath it; Ryan hesitates before knocking quietly.

“S’open,” Ray calls softly. Ryan eases the door open and steps in. Ray’s slouched down against his pillows, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks pale and drawn in the dim light, and he watches Ryan closely as he leans against the bedpost. He flicks on the lamp on the bedside table and puts his phone facedown on his chest. “You’re not sleeping tonight, I guess. What’s up?”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Y’know, I’m _supposed_ to be sleeping. Resting up and all that.”

“Yeah? How’s that working out?”

“Ehh.” Ray shrugs. He pats the bed next to him and Ryan sits hesitantly, his body tense. “Really, though, what’s up?”

“I really did actually wanna know what—how you were feeling.” Ryan is suddenly self-conscious, incredibly aware of how his body fits into this suddenly far-too-intimate space, and of Ray’s eyes on him.

“I got shot. Feelin’ pretty shitty.” Ray rubs his eyes. He seems not just tired, but _exhausted_ , and Ryan wonders why he didn’t go to sleep. “By the way—thanks. Figure that’s what you came up here for, wanted me to thank you or something. So, thanks.”

“That’s—no. Ray—“ Ryan pauses, shakes his head. He laughs, little humor behind it. “Don’t thank me, I nearly left you there.”

“Why didn’t you?” Ray’s voice is suddenly sharp. He’s looking at Ryan, eyes steady and cold and piercing through his glasses, and Ryan remembers some of the things he’s seen this boy _do_ without breaking a sweat, and he almost shivers. _Focus_.

“I—“ Ryan’s voice catches in his throat, and he frowns. “I don’t know. Geoff would’ve killed me. And I like you too much.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Ryan flushes, but he looks up at Ray and sees him smiling crookedly. “Okay. Listen.”

“Yeah?” Ray keeps smiling at him.

“Shut up.”

“Great comeback, Ryan. Really fantastic. You planning on giving up the life, going in for comedy or something? You’d kill on the stand-up scene.”

Ryan just sighs, drawn out and belabored and smiling. The guilty tension in his chest has been replaced with a completely different kind of tension. “You’re a pain in my ass. I _should_ ’veleft you there.”

Ray’s smile stops, his face suddenly serious. “You should’ve. You were taking an unnecessary risk.”

_Well, sorry if I don’t wanna cooperate with your fucking_ death wish. Ryan starts to stand, slightly annoyed, but Ray reaches out and grabs his sleeve.

“Buuuuuuuuut, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t.” Ray looks up at him through his eyelashes, somewhat sheepishly. “And I’m sorry I’m being a dick about it.”

“That’s cheesy as hell.” Ryan leans over and kisses Ray’s forehead. He smells like sweat and gunpowder and sleep. “I’m glad you said it. And it’s okay.”

Ray smiles, then, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and he tugs on Ryan’s sleeve again, pulls him back down, kisses him on the lips. Ryan hates to think in cliches, but he swears he can feel a goddamn _spark_ in his chest when Ray kisses him, a dull buzzing in his ears. Ryan kisses him back, carding his fingers through Ray’s hair. Ray smiles into the kiss, and Ryan’s barely able to pull himself away. “I should go. You need to rest.”

“Just—stay with me?” Ray asks, his voice hardly more than a whisper. 

“I—“ Ryan deliberates, but feels his resolve breaking as he takes in the dark circles beneath Ray’s eyes, the butterfly bandage over the cut on his cheek. The slight blush along his nose and ears. “Okay.” 

And so the sun completes its slow, inexorable rise as Ray curls up against Ryan, face buried against his neck and fingers tapping out some gentle, incomprehensible rhythm against his chest. Ryan watches the dull grey light play across Ray’s features, runs his fingers through his hair, feels the steady heat of another heartbeat against his ribcage—and his Plan B now has a permanent plus-one.

And that’s okay with him.

 


End file.
